19-Mar-2007

As many of you know, St. Patrick's Day was this past weekend.  And if you don't know, it probably means you are still drunk from said holiday, propped up against a lightpole with a splitting headache, wondering why your ass hurts.  Not that that's how my weekend went.  I'm speaking hypothetically here.  There were a couple of potentially unpleasant situations I had to navigate, since I was party-hopping (albeit half-assedly) on Saturday.  The first was a barbecue at one of the Faux Agents' houses.  This was an obligatory party - it was one of those shindigs I had to attend, just to show my pretty face and smile and wave and get the hell out before anyone could figure out how dorky I really am.  Always the good sport, Cliffhanger agreed to come with me, as she's supposed to have drinks with the Faux Agent sometime in the future (wherein I imagine they will spend the entire time toasting my name and talking about how godawfully AWESOME I am).  The barbecue started at three, but, of course, we were fashionably late and walked in a little after seven.  I spotted the Irish Asian, and thank goodness, because he was the only person I knew, so I made a beeline for him.  But he was deep in conversation with some twitty little slut, so I had to do the whole pretend-I-didn't-just-wave-at-him awkward thing, and then I felt the need to backtrack through the crowd, so I turned to make a run for it, but Cliffhanger was on my heels, so I nearly mowed her over.  "I need to find the Faux Agent," I said.  Now, we had seen about four people inside, watching TV, but surely, I thought, surely Faux Agent isn't inside with those four, when he has EIGHT HUNDRED wasted guests in his backyard.  I was wrong.  We walked in and stood in the corner conversing for a second before I heard him call my name.  And I thanked my lucky stars that he recognized me - that's a big fear of mine, that I'll have to remind someone I've only met in person several times who I am.  Especially when they're drunk.  But we said hi, Cliffhanger introduced herself, and then we made our way back outside.  The Irish Asian had had enough of his previous companion, so he made his way over and issued an invitation to the Friday Night Lights wrap party.  Wrap parties are a sore subject between me and Cliffhanger, as I did not ensure her presence at the PD one.  But look, I'd only met her once, she really didn't find me all that interesting, and that was that, or so I thought.  And, for the nine billionth time in my life, I thought wrong.  Anyway, I was seriously considering the invitation, when Cliffhanger reminded me that there was dinner to be had, then a party at the Wise Man's, and there was just no time to trek from West Hollywood to Silver Lake then to Santa Monica and back.  So we politely declined on our way out, and I breathed a sigh of relief that that whole schmoozing thing was over.  Not that I don't love Faux Agent.  I do.  He's one of my favorite Hollywoodites.  But I am a mere white trash peon with no fashion sense and a Sarah Polley obsession.  So it goes without saying that a backyardful of Hollywoodites would make me uncomfortable.

By the time we had dinner and met up with the Designated Driver outside the Wise Man's place, it was past eleven.  The Designated Driver looked tired, mainly, I think, because she'd been dealing with family all day, but I was very happy she made an appearance, and I was thrilled, thrilled I tell you, to see the Wise Man and both his roommates.  Somehow, he finagled an invitation to Yoga from Cliffhanger, because apparently he wants to see me vulnerable.  That, my friends, is laughable.  And charmingly inappropriate, as the Wise Man often is.  The Designated Driver left a little after midnight, which was too bad, because that's when the dance party started.  I only danced once, and only then because the Wise Man's roommate forced me, but we ended up staying at the party till around three, reclining against the couch cushions a la Daisy and Jordan in THE GREAT GATSBY, unable to move or speak without everything feeling really heavy.  I suppose I'm more Jordan than Daisy, since I don't have a voice that rings with money, or whatever the quote may be.  Nope, my voice rings of spud guns and whiskey and Limited tank tops from 1998.  Also, I sometimes sound like a squawking chicken.  A vulnerable squawking chicken.